Lynn
It's been such a long time since I last saw you, nearly eight years I think. But still you're doing amazing things around the country. Who knew you would follow your namesake? I hope you still find the time to enjoy a summers day.
Corey
Senior Ratta! How we miss that 'stach of yours these days! I remember when we spar at Kevin's apartment. You'd throw me up over a shoulder, I'd thunk you atop the head which only resulted in my own broken crown in the end. I hear the weather is nice in Texas but I'm sure you miss the winters here. Or you don't, I'm not sure I would after a while.
John
Ah, Mr.Moyer. How does the Govenator fair these days? Surely you are doing better than he though your impression of him is still spot on. In and out of the classroom you have a certain style, a look, that just screams an easy air of education. I'm sure you're students think you're one of the 'cool' teachers.
Crystal
Is your life sill like a musical? You could sing you way down a street in a crowded city without a care for the world! Or would the world start to notice? It's just around Easter time and the bunny is about to get loose! Have you kept track of all of your eggs...?
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Week 7: Who's the First Person You Remember?
The first person I remember, like most people I think, is my mother. My first memory of her (My first memory in the truest sense actually) isn't exactly what one would call pleasant, though I don't really find fault with her for it. As the story goes, I had been put down for a nap and had been sleeping peacefully when my mom stepped out to get a jug of milk from the store that was, quite literally, down stairs.
Of course Murphy would have it that I woke up not soon after her leaving.
After what seemed like a life time of being alone and freaking out over not being able to find my mother, she came back and found me running about like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off. I vaguely remember her setting something down, presumably the jug of milk, and rushing over to pick me up. This is what I remember most, on this and multiple occasions when I'd gone and hurt myself or managed to be upset; her picking me up and trying to help settle what ailed me. My mother was and is a hard woman, somewhat by necessity, but she has her moments when that exterior cracks. I think, though, that she was that way mostly for our protection as well as her own. Being a single mother, after all, is a difficult thing.
Of course Murphy would have it that I woke up not soon after her leaving.
After what seemed like a life time of being alone and freaking out over not being able to find my mother, she came back and found me running about like the proverbial chicken with its head cut off. I vaguely remember her setting something down, presumably the jug of milk, and rushing over to pick me up. This is what I remember most, on this and multiple occasions when I'd gone and hurt myself or managed to be upset; her picking me up and trying to help settle what ailed me. My mother was and is a hard woman, somewhat by necessity, but she has her moments when that exterior cracks. I think, though, that she was that way mostly for our protection as well as her own. Being a single mother, after all, is a difficult thing.
Week 7: Take A Look at Photo of a Person; What do you see?
The photograph itself is dark, almost a bit hazy, but the day of my high school graduation had been a scorcher. You can see it in the faces of the parents as they watch my friend Justin march down the isle to receive his diploma.
He always was an easygoing sort of kid, my friend Justin, and you can really get that feel for him in this picture. His head is turned just in time to catch the photographer, the tassel on his cap swaying with the motion, and his smile is the trade mark crooked grin he used to charm my classmates with. There's a happiness about him, in the tilt of his head and the quirk of his brow that would suggest, as one could readily guess, that he's proud to be there. That he's finally made it.
He always was an easygoing sort of kid, my friend Justin, and you can really get that feel for him in this picture. His head is turned just in time to catch the photographer, the tassel on his cap swaying with the motion, and his smile is the trade mark crooked grin he used to charm my classmates with. There's a happiness about him, in the tilt of his head and the quirk of his brow that would suggest, as one could readily guess, that he's proud to be there. That he's finally made it.
Week 7: Character Studies
So I'm out doing errands in a local department store and I find myself waiting for some assistance from one of the sales associates and I find my mind wandering a bit. Normally I'm pretty patient but today I'm a little edgy, too many things to do and not enough time to do it in I suppose. So to take my mind off things I take a look around my surroundings and indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: People watching.
Some people think I'm crazy, but it really can be pretty interesting. Let's take this guy walking by me for example: He's your a-typical twenty-something, the warm weather has prompted him to wear a blue T and an open button up with the sleeves rolled up. Short, spiked hair and aviators worn inside hint at someone who follows the trends (Though I'm a bit far behind to really be an expert) as well as a solid self confidence that is only accented by the length of his stride and the way he mows down on that dentyne ice. Most likely he's returning from a few weeks break from Orono or maybe just out and about after that next pair of designer jeans. Or I could be completely wrong and he's off to change and clock into work; at any rate my attention is drawn back around as the sales clerk finally makes her way around to me.
I can already tell it's been a crap day for the poor girl. Her shoulder length blond hair is slightly out of place, with a few strands falling from the confines of her ponytail and into her eyes. She bats at these rogue hairs as she greets me with a weary smile. 'Jenn' as her name tag reads is trying her level best to not let the rest of the day bleed through in our interactions which is certainly to her credit; having worked retail before I can empathise with how nasty people can be. Despite her contained fluster her uniform is still presentable, the red polo straight and her kakies unwrinkled which leads me to believe that she has a decent ability to handle stress despite the tired look in her eyes. I find out she's in her third year of college while we look for my desired items, which I nod and chalk the tired look up to that. After all I'm in the same sort of boat as her. It's a short exchange, nothing really substantial then I'm off once again to continue my way into retail land.
Some people think I'm crazy, but it really can be pretty interesting. Let's take this guy walking by me for example: He's your a-typical twenty-something, the warm weather has prompted him to wear a blue T and an open button up with the sleeves rolled up. Short, spiked hair and aviators worn inside hint at someone who follows the trends (Though I'm a bit far behind to really be an expert) as well as a solid self confidence that is only accented by the length of his stride and the way he mows down on that dentyne ice. Most likely he's returning from a few weeks break from Orono or maybe just out and about after that next pair of designer jeans. Or I could be completely wrong and he's off to change and clock into work; at any rate my attention is drawn back around as the sales clerk finally makes her way around to me.
I can already tell it's been a crap day for the poor girl. Her shoulder length blond hair is slightly out of place, with a few strands falling from the confines of her ponytail and into her eyes. She bats at these rogue hairs as she greets me with a weary smile. 'Jenn' as her name tag reads is trying her level best to not let the rest of the day bleed through in our interactions which is certainly to her credit; having worked retail before I can empathise with how nasty people can be. Despite her contained fluster her uniform is still presentable, the red polo straight and her kakies unwrinkled which leads me to believe that she has a decent ability to handle stress despite the tired look in her eyes. I find out she's in her third year of college while we look for my desired items, which I nod and chalk the tired look up to that. After all I'm in the same sort of boat as her. It's a short exchange, nothing really substantial then I'm off once again to continue my way into retail land.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Week 6: The Safest Place in the World...
Maine is an huge, expansive state. On certain stretches of road one could drive hours and see nothing but trees, grassland, and coast; the view only broken on occassion my small hamlets of civilization huddled their own little clearings in the vast wilderness. In one such clearing, a small stretch of land bridge occupied by a town called Brooksville, is a small camp ground called Winniaugwamauk.
It's a remote place, as I have previously suggested, the road leading to the camp ground itself is tucked away from the main drag amongst a growth of ancient evergreens, you'd almost miss it driving along at a fast clip like most motorists unless you were actually looking keeping an eye on the roads for it. From the hidden turn the road is paved, if not well kept. Frost heaves and poorly patched potholes, a thin strip of dirt laced with weeds seperates the battered tar from the rusted pine needle blanket of the forest that closses in from both sides. Of course this only lasts for a few moments then the tree line breaks away, along with the paved portion of road, and opens up into a large field. Freshly cut grass, more green than anything I've seen back home, blankets the curve of a small hill that dips down towards the brown sand covered beach. Perched a top the small rise and over looking the mirror like surface of 'Lake Winni' is a solid, rectangular building. Called 'the tapernackle' it's a deceptively simple building; white washed siding and a black tiled roof conceal the simple beuty of the varnished wooden stage and panneling inside. I can remember numerous skits and shorts I and my cabin mates had performed there, both funny and serious, as well as the services done by my old pastor Mark. All of them, each one, is a memory I hold dear.
Farther down the dirt road is the dinning hall, it's sides covered in darkened cedar shakes and surounded by a deck painted in the same white wash as the tabernackle. Inside the walls are splashed light blue and heavy wooden tables are set in neat rows down the center of the room, eight to a side. Etched in each are names, phrases, the declaration of a teen age crush...all footprints of campers past and present. Once, during a particularly dull meal, I had started to drum on the table; a typical Seminol chant beat that spread throughout the hall. It was infectious and one of my most fond memories.
The dirt road bends around the perimiter of the dinning hall and always seems to have a perminant layer of dust hanging in the air from all the traffic back and forth. It mianders down a small slope that runs between two neat rows of small, brown sided buildings; each with a small plaque hanging from beside the white painted screen door and sporting a numeral 1 through 13. The interior of these little buildings are divided into two rooms and lined with bunk beds. The wooden walls are smooth, more from age and touch than application of sand paper, and sport a legion of names, dates, and phrases left here by generations of occupants. Many a night I remember looking at the many scetched or carved words, most of them names and dates going back to the late seventies.
My favorite place though is just left of the dirt road that runs between the buildings. An old pine resides there, twisting over so that it's branches provide shade to the battered old picknick table benieth. The old surface has been painted, stripped then repainted a rusty sort of red and is speckled with droplets of sap; and for many years has provided both a rest and meeting place for many of my fellow campers, including myself. It was here surrounded by friends and loved ones, our voices lifted in conversation or laughter, that I felt secure, unjudged.
Safe.
It's a remote place, as I have previously suggested, the road leading to the camp ground itself is tucked away from the main drag amongst a growth of ancient evergreens, you'd almost miss it driving along at a fast clip like most motorists unless you were actually looking keeping an eye on the roads for it. From the hidden turn the road is paved, if not well kept. Frost heaves and poorly patched potholes, a thin strip of dirt laced with weeds seperates the battered tar from the rusted pine needle blanket of the forest that closses in from both sides. Of course this only lasts for a few moments then the tree line breaks away, along with the paved portion of road, and opens up into a large field. Freshly cut grass, more green than anything I've seen back home, blankets the curve of a small hill that dips down towards the brown sand covered beach. Perched a top the small rise and over looking the mirror like surface of 'Lake Winni' is a solid, rectangular building. Called 'the tapernackle' it's a deceptively simple building; white washed siding and a black tiled roof conceal the simple beuty of the varnished wooden stage and panneling inside. I can remember numerous skits and shorts I and my cabin mates had performed there, both funny and serious, as well as the services done by my old pastor Mark. All of them, each one, is a memory I hold dear.
Farther down the dirt road is the dinning hall, it's sides covered in darkened cedar shakes and surounded by a deck painted in the same white wash as the tabernackle. Inside the walls are splashed light blue and heavy wooden tables are set in neat rows down the center of the room, eight to a side. Etched in each are names, phrases, the declaration of a teen age crush...all footprints of campers past and present. Once, during a particularly dull meal, I had started to drum on the table; a typical Seminol chant beat that spread throughout the hall. It was infectious and one of my most fond memories.
The dirt road bends around the perimiter of the dinning hall and always seems to have a perminant layer of dust hanging in the air from all the traffic back and forth. It mianders down a small slope that runs between two neat rows of small, brown sided buildings; each with a small plaque hanging from beside the white painted screen door and sporting a numeral 1 through 13. The interior of these little buildings are divided into two rooms and lined with bunk beds. The wooden walls are smooth, more from age and touch than application of sand paper, and sport a legion of names, dates, and phrases left here by generations of occupants. Many a night I remember looking at the many scetched or carved words, most of them names and dates going back to the late seventies.
My favorite place though is just left of the dirt road that runs between the buildings. An old pine resides there, twisting over so that it's branches provide shade to the battered old picknick table benieth. The old surface has been painted, stripped then repainted a rusty sort of red and is speckled with droplets of sap; and for many years has provided both a rest and meeting place for many of my fellow campers, including myself. It was here surrounded by friends and loved ones, our voices lifted in conversation or laughter, that I felt secure, unjudged.
Safe.
Week 6: A Picture Post Card...
I've lived in Orrington most of my life so, by extension, I've become pretty familiar with the surrounding towns: Bangor, Brewer, and Buscksport. But you know one of the more interesting myths they have about those collective towns is the legend of Colonel Buck's tomb. They've made something of an attraction out of it, legends, tours, and above all postcards; the later I think irritates me the most.
I'm not sure if they still make them or not, but when I was younger I came accost one while stopping in at the Mobil just down the road from Buck's tomb. The little cardboard rectangle depicted Buck's grave, a traditional tiered pillar, from a dramatic angle with the source of the local legend catching the light in such a manner as to make it pop right out at you. What is the source of the legend you ask? Well it is a rather remarkable black outline in the otherwise soft gray stone that resembles a foot or leg. To further make the image more impressive a contrast has been added to the trees and grass that permeates the background, casting the colors of said flora in a darker more sinister tone. With the small American flag planted at the right of the monument it makes for a fairly impressive image to behold. The truth, however, is something of a let down once you actually view the space without the occluded assistance of a photoshopped lens.
The actual site of Buck's grave is along US Highway 1, or Main street in Bucksport across from the Hanifords super market. Resting atop a small hill that has been moderately modified with cement bricking to secure the elevation the only real foreboding bit about the entire cemetery is perhaps the wrought iron fence that surrounds its perimeter. The hill itself is mostly barren dirt, at least along the approach; I couldn't tell you what the rest of the cemetery looks like beyond the few random heat stones and a smattering of struggling grass that fades back into what looks like an actual lawn. As for the dark tree and brush that are pictured in the post card; they're anything but the sinister renditions depicted. An old maple and oak flank the cemetery on opposite sides, sagged with age but the color of their leaves is still bright. And what of the tomb of Colonel Buck you ask? Well...it certainly is impressive for its time and location, but nothing you couldn't find anywhere else in the united states. The sun bleached marble sparkles with small deposits of quarts that tries to fight through a patch of dark weathering or two and a dark outline of what might be considered a foot or leg does certainly grace the front of the monument under the boldly engraved letters "BUCK" but in all honesty I would call this place anything but sinister. Haunting perhaps, but I suppose the mundanity of people passing through this little stretch of road has dispelled the tale a little.
But I suppose that's how we bring people to new places, with fancy tales and myths that are something new or unique. I would also hazard a guess that even an outline in a rock could be spun into the greatest of tales around the camp fire also.
I'm not sure if they still make them or not, but when I was younger I came accost one while stopping in at the Mobil just down the road from Buck's tomb. The little cardboard rectangle depicted Buck's grave, a traditional tiered pillar, from a dramatic angle with the source of the local legend catching the light in such a manner as to make it pop right out at you. What is the source of the legend you ask? Well it is a rather remarkable black outline in the otherwise soft gray stone that resembles a foot or leg. To further make the image more impressive a contrast has been added to the trees and grass that permeates the background, casting the colors of said flora in a darker more sinister tone. With the small American flag planted at the right of the monument it makes for a fairly impressive image to behold. The truth, however, is something of a let down once you actually view the space without the occluded assistance of a photoshopped lens.
The actual site of Buck's grave is along US Highway 1, or Main street in Bucksport across from the Hanifords super market. Resting atop a small hill that has been moderately modified with cement bricking to secure the elevation the only real foreboding bit about the entire cemetery is perhaps the wrought iron fence that surrounds its perimeter. The hill itself is mostly barren dirt, at least along the approach; I couldn't tell you what the rest of the cemetery looks like beyond the few random heat stones and a smattering of struggling grass that fades back into what looks like an actual lawn. As for the dark tree and brush that are pictured in the post card; they're anything but the sinister renditions depicted. An old maple and oak flank the cemetery on opposite sides, sagged with age but the color of their leaves is still bright. And what of the tomb of Colonel Buck you ask? Well...it certainly is impressive for its time and location, but nothing you couldn't find anywhere else in the united states. The sun bleached marble sparkles with small deposits of quarts that tries to fight through a patch of dark weathering or two and a dark outline of what might be considered a foot or leg does certainly grace the front of the monument under the boldly engraved letters "BUCK" but in all honesty I would call this place anything but sinister. Haunting perhaps, but I suppose the mundanity of people passing through this little stretch of road has dispelled the tale a little.
But I suppose that's how we bring people to new places, with fancy tales and myths that are something new or unique. I would also hazard a guess that even an outline in a rock could be spun into the greatest of tales around the camp fire also.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Week 5 Revisited: The Last Nerative!
Living in Maine you'd think I'd be used to the snow, or at least other people would be used to the snow. But no, I don't think anyone really gets used to it; this year especially. I guess I can't really, honestly blame people for having a little difficulty. I mean with the warm breezy winter that seemed more like spring than the real season it's supposed to be then BAM! At least six inches of snow all in one night! I'm sure I joined the majority of the north east in muttering while I cleaned off my car after the first snow fall and a Sunfire isn't exactly the best car in the snow, look at it's name for heavens sake!
Still I don't think the first snow is an excuse to drive like the road is about to fall out from under you or like a mad man. Take this instance for example: I was driving in to work during one of the more active snow events and I was running late, the drive to my apartment complex having turned to a semi-solid sludge which nearly prevented me from gaining an exit. Now I find myself behind a giant, red Ford truck. You know the ones that are two ton and have four rear wheels right? Well this guy was creeping along at ten miles under the limit while I'm constantly muttering under my breath 'c'mon!' as I mentally try to urge the guy to go just a whee bit faster. Seriously, with a truck like that he (or she) should be plowing right along like this little white out was another spring morning; my fingers began to drum a rapid beat out along the edge of my steering wheel while I tried to focus more on the gloomy financial forecast on NPR other than the fact my boss was going to have me for proverbial lunch when I got in.
This of course eeked out for an agonizing ten minutes (I did get to finish he NPR show though, kind of a silver lining there) with my 'lead blocker' trucking along the now well salted and gravel laden roads but still at a fraction of the speed they could have been safely going. I actually think at one point there was a person jogging that was out pacing us....or that could have just been my own imagination making things worse than they really are. And then....the truck is gone! Turned left to head towards Orono or some other place away and out of my way. This at first brings a sense of relief or even, dare I say, jubilation! That is until I glance at the clock and my heart just sinks. Five minutes passed the hour already..my boss is going to kill me! Freed from my oppressive lead driver I sped away.
"You're late." is all my boss says as I walk through the door. All I can do is furrow my brown and mutter "I know."
Still I don't think the first snow is an excuse to drive like the road is about to fall out from under you or like a mad man. Take this instance for example: I was driving in to work during one of the more active snow events and I was running late, the drive to my apartment complex having turned to a semi-solid sludge which nearly prevented me from gaining an exit. Now I find myself behind a giant, red Ford truck. You know the ones that are two ton and have four rear wheels right? Well this guy was creeping along at ten miles under the limit while I'm constantly muttering under my breath 'c'mon!' as I mentally try to urge the guy to go just a whee bit faster. Seriously, with a truck like that he (or she) should be plowing right along like this little white out was another spring morning; my fingers began to drum a rapid beat out along the edge of my steering wheel while I tried to focus more on the gloomy financial forecast on NPR other than the fact my boss was going to have me for proverbial lunch when I got in.
This of course eeked out for an agonizing ten minutes (I did get to finish he NPR show though, kind of a silver lining there) with my 'lead blocker' trucking along the now well salted and gravel laden roads but still at a fraction of the speed they could have been safely going. I actually think at one point there was a person jogging that was out pacing us....or that could have just been my own imagination making things worse than they really are. And then....the truck is gone! Turned left to head towards Orono or some other place away and out of my way. This at first brings a sense of relief or even, dare I say, jubilation! That is until I glance at the clock and my heart just sinks. Five minutes passed the hour already..my boss is going to kill me! Freed from my oppressive lead driver I sped away.
"You're late." is all my boss says as I walk through the door. All I can do is furrow my brown and mutter "I know."
Week 5 Revisited: We Name the Guilty Man!
If you've ever worked in the service industry you know that at some point that little touch of mischief starts to get at the people you work with. Burger King employees are not exempt from this of course and this little but seemed to bite really hard one late afternoon in the late spring of 1999. I'd been working for the company a good portion of my senior year, it was something of an attempt on my part to do the 'adult' thing and do the proverbial 'get a hair cut and a real job' sort of deal. My mom had fully endorsed this of course seeing it as a step in the right direction. What she, or I for that matter, hadn't endorsed is the store having me close on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday; the resulting work load and getting out around one in the morning was taking an obvious and heavy toll on my school work. Thus it had come to pass that I had put in my two weeks notice to focus on trying to get my happy self graduated and now found myself on my last day of work, bored out of my gourd.
There were three of us on at the time, a guy named Tim was in the kitchen with my while my friend, then manager, Kevin was kicking around up front doing managerial type things while us crew member types tried to busy ourselves with cleaning, stocking product and just generally appearing to be working. This of course is a skill that has been mastered by many in the customer service field, if only to avoid confrontations with the higher ups or to just generally save one's sanity from the slow times that permeate short bursts of commercial madness. It was during one of these times that I glanced at Tim and grinned. To his credit, Tim didn't really know what I was planning so he just followed along behind me as I went over to the ice bin. You see, when you throw ice cubes into a fry vat it does some pretty cool things: The ice rapidly turns from solid, to liquid, to gas at an accelerated pace causing the oil in the vat to bubble as the vaporized H2O is released back into the air. Like everyone else I'd played around with throwing one or two in the vat...but not a whole hand full! As I fished out a generous helping of ice cubes Tim screwed up his tanned, hispanic features in confusion. It was kind of comical when you put the streak of ketchup that marred his side burns into the mix.
With quick steps I made my way over to the fryer, Tim close on my heels, and tossed my ill gotten hand full of ice into the fry vat. My now partner in crime made an obligatory exclemation of "oh shit!" while we stepped back and watched as the first bubbles began to roll at the surface of the vat. With object fascination we watched as the oil began to froth and boil, the evaporated water exiting each bursting bubble with a hot snap or crack. It looked like a bottle of Pepsi that had just been dropped and opened up, all carbonation and frothing bubbles, except that these bubbles were about three hundred and fifty degrees and nearly boiling out over the confines of the vat walls.
This, of course, brought about quite a bit of noise, as ten gallons of frothing liquid is want to do and Kevin came dashing around the corner, clip board in one hand, pencil raised in another, his pale sweating face twisted in a look of consternation "Who did this?!" his tone was sharp and his eyes wild. All the while Tim and I are sniggering in our corner of the kitchen, of course the mirth was not meant to last and my co culprit eventually pointed at me as an indication of guilt. With no where else to go I grinned again and raised my hand.
Kevin raised his pencil and bapped me on the nose with the eraser, then walked away shaking his head. It was my last day after all and I suppose there wasn't much else he could do.
There were three of us on at the time, a guy named Tim was in the kitchen with my while my friend, then manager, Kevin was kicking around up front doing managerial type things while us crew member types tried to busy ourselves with cleaning, stocking product and just generally appearing to be working. This of course is a skill that has been mastered by many in the customer service field, if only to avoid confrontations with the higher ups or to just generally save one's sanity from the slow times that permeate short bursts of commercial madness. It was during one of these times that I glanced at Tim and grinned. To his credit, Tim didn't really know what I was planning so he just followed along behind me as I went over to the ice bin. You see, when you throw ice cubes into a fry vat it does some pretty cool things: The ice rapidly turns from solid, to liquid, to gas at an accelerated pace causing the oil in the vat to bubble as the vaporized H2O is released back into the air. Like everyone else I'd played around with throwing one or two in the vat...but not a whole hand full! As I fished out a generous helping of ice cubes Tim screwed up his tanned, hispanic features in confusion. It was kind of comical when you put the streak of ketchup that marred his side burns into the mix.
With quick steps I made my way over to the fryer, Tim close on my heels, and tossed my ill gotten hand full of ice into the fry vat. My now partner in crime made an obligatory exclemation of "oh shit!" while we stepped back and watched as the first bubbles began to roll at the surface of the vat. With object fascination we watched as the oil began to froth and boil, the evaporated water exiting each bursting bubble with a hot snap or crack. It looked like a bottle of Pepsi that had just been dropped and opened up, all carbonation and frothing bubbles, except that these bubbles were about three hundred and fifty degrees and nearly boiling out over the confines of the vat walls.
This, of course, brought about quite a bit of noise, as ten gallons of frothing liquid is want to do and Kevin came dashing around the corner, clip board in one hand, pencil raised in another, his pale sweating face twisted in a look of consternation "Who did this?!" his tone was sharp and his eyes wild. All the while Tim and I are sniggering in our corner of the kitchen, of course the mirth was not meant to last and my co culprit eventually pointed at me as an indication of guilt. With no where else to go I grinned again and raised my hand.
Kevin raised his pencil and bapped me on the nose with the eraser, then walked away shaking his head. It was my last day after all and I suppose there wasn't much else he could do.
Week 5 Revisited: You've Lost it! Where is it...?
You ever had one of those days where you just can't keep track of anything? I have, I think it's one of those things that have gotten worse as I've gotten older, ether that or it's simply a result of acumulating more things to lose stuff in. Like now for instance, I'm pawing through the bottom drawr of my desk looking for my keys. It's a perfectly logical place to look, who wouldn't lose their keys amidst the rough and final drafts of college papers and half written stories that have been left to collect dust? Actually it's more an exorsize in that old addage "Always look first in the last place you'd think they'd be." Rummaging around in those old files don't spot a glint of metal or the gingle of chain so....on to the next place, which would be the first I should've looked in the first place: My pants.
With this relisation of course comes the obligitory pat down of ones pockets which produces one cell phone, thirty seven cents in change and a pay stub but no key ring as of yet. One would think that one would keep a better eye on the single most important componant to the operation of a motor vehicle, but apparently not this guy. Further inspection of my work pants also fails to bear fruit thus I move to the next most plausable places: The kitchen table and under the couch cushions. This of course leads me out of my bedroom into the kitchen and with a quick inspection of the table I find the latest issue of GameInformer which I pause to peruse a few moments (Hey, I get easily distracted) but still no keys. Thus I continued to my final planned destination, the couch. It's a nice piece, soft brown leather with a aged look that speaks of several years of good wear. Still the cushions themselves are still fairly soft as I toss them aside and go riffling through the inner workings benieth. Still no keys.
Standing up I scratch my head and look about for some idea, any idea of where they had gone; then it hits me like a fuzzy ball of lightning. Ferrets.
Last night the ferrets had been out playing tag through the pant legs of my work pants. Going back into my room I turn over my right work shoe, nothing there. I pick up the left and hear the tell tale jingle of metal against metal. With a tilt I spill my keys out into my waiting hand and pocket them swiftly. I knew those little theaving maggpies had to have had something to do with this!
With this relisation of course comes the obligitory pat down of ones pockets which produces one cell phone, thirty seven cents in change and a pay stub but no key ring as of yet. One would think that one would keep a better eye on the single most important componant to the operation of a motor vehicle, but apparently not this guy. Further inspection of my work pants also fails to bear fruit thus I move to the next most plausable places: The kitchen table and under the couch cushions. This of course leads me out of my bedroom into the kitchen and with a quick inspection of the table I find the latest issue of GameInformer which I pause to peruse a few moments (Hey, I get easily distracted) but still no keys. Thus I continued to my final planned destination, the couch. It's a nice piece, soft brown leather with a aged look that speaks of several years of good wear. Still the cushions themselves are still fairly soft as I toss them aside and go riffling through the inner workings benieth. Still no keys.
Standing up I scratch my head and look about for some idea, any idea of where they had gone; then it hits me like a fuzzy ball of lightning. Ferrets.
Last night the ferrets had been out playing tag through the pant legs of my work pants. Going back into my room I turn over my right work shoe, nothing there. I pick up the left and hear the tell tale jingle of metal against metal. With a tilt I spill my keys out into my waiting hand and pocket them swiftly. I knew those little theaving maggpies had to have had something to do with this!
Week 6: Yet Another Place...
“....Hell...where did they go?!?”
You'd think that holding onto ones keys, especially the night before the big interview, would be a simple task. Yet here I am, frantically tossing about my room with that impending feeling of 'you're going to be late!' hanging over my head. I mean, how hard could it be to find them? The room isn't all that big! This thought and many more 'colorful' ones are running through my head as I rummage about in the cloths basket beside my bed. Jeans, socks, t shirts, they all go flying out of the hamper in a vain hope to hear that quiet clank or soft jingle, a tell tale sign
that my keys are somewhere inside. My efforts proving fruitless I stand up with a loud, frustrated sigh and cast my eyes about for an idea, any idea, of where I might have misplaced them.
It's a small room my bedroom; six by ten, the walls painted the blue of a late summer sky and the floors the mass produced varnished wood you find in Home Depot or Wal Mart. Jammed up against the corner is my dresser, a battered brown that contains the majority of my wardrobe. I go there next and open each scared and scratched drawer and rifle through them. As I reach the
last one and meet with no success I idly think that maybe I should do laundry then snap my attention to the contents on to of the dresser. I set aside two tan and black marble candle sticks, a purchase I made years back at the world famous Perry's Nut House, to start pawing through the random letters, half written stories, and other assorted odds and ends that tend to clutter one of the few flat surfaces in my room.
Nothing. Sometimes I wonder if my ancestors were sailors in the ancient world, if not I can only guess where this litany of creative profanity originated. I suppose I could blame MTV or pup culture.
With the proverbial clock ticking away in my mind I move to the window, its bent metal frame painted black and chipped from nearly ten years of abuse by myself and my brother. The glass pane itself is cracked half open to allow the fresh spring air to slip in and stir the threadbare curtains that only did a lip service job at blocking the light from pouring into the room.
“Ha!” I spot the glint of metal on the pressed wood of the sill and my hand shoots
You'd think that holding onto ones keys, especially the night before the big interview, would be a simple task. Yet here I am, frantically tossing about my room with that impending feeling of 'you're going to be late!' hanging over my head. I mean, how hard could it be to find them? The room isn't all that big! This thought and many more 'colorful' ones are running through my head as I rummage about in the cloths basket beside my bed. Jeans, socks, t shirts, they all go flying out of the hamper in a vain hope to hear that quiet clank or soft jingle, a tell tale sign
that my keys are somewhere inside. My efforts proving fruitless I stand up with a loud, frustrated sigh and cast my eyes about for an idea, any idea, of where I might have misplaced them.
It's a small room my bedroom; six by ten, the walls painted the blue of a late summer sky and the floors the mass produced varnished wood you find in Home Depot or Wal Mart. Jammed up against the corner is my dresser, a battered brown that contains the majority of my wardrobe. I go there next and open each scared and scratched drawer and rifle through them. As I reach the
last one and meet with no success I idly think that maybe I should do laundry then snap my attention to the contents on to of the dresser. I set aside two tan and black marble candle sticks, a purchase I made years back at the world famous Perry's Nut House, to start pawing through the random letters, half written stories, and other assorted odds and ends that tend to clutter one of the few flat surfaces in my room.
Nothing. Sometimes I wonder if my ancestors were sailors in the ancient world, if not I can only guess where this litany of creative profanity originated. I suppose I could blame MTV or pup culture.
With the proverbial clock ticking away in my mind I move to the window, its bent metal frame painted black and chipped from nearly ten years of abuse by myself and my brother. The glass pane itself is cracked half open to allow the fresh spring air to slip in and stir the threadbare curtains that only did a lip service job at blocking the light from pouring into the room.
“Ha!” I spot the glint of metal on the pressed wood of the sill and my hand shoots
Week 6: Places
It wasn't the phone call out of the blue and filled with awkward pauses that wracked my nerves, or the two hour car ride via route 1A, past forests full of green summer leaves and tourist towns bustling with the influx of commerce from out of state. No, it wasn't either of these that really got those fluttering feelings in the pit of my stomach going; it was going passed Duck Puddle Pond, my Sunfire rocking crazily as it went down the a dirt road that had way too many potholes.
I almost felt bad, the rumble of my muffler along this quiet (some might say quaint) country road seemed really out of place with the road being surrounded by maples in full bloom competing with the ever present pine trees Maine is known for. At one point I laughingly thought the ducks that occupied the smooth waters of the local boat landing gave me a scathing look as I drove by, more than likely I was trying to focus on something else to keep my nervousness down; which the brilliant summer day and cool breeze didn't really make much of a dent in.
My dad and I hadn't parted on good terms, granted it really wasn't a good situation to begin with seeing as he was in the beginning stages of a messy divorce, but our last conversation besides our good byes had been him mostly yelling and me trying not to yell back. It was that last conversation I tried to keep from dwelling on as I turned onto the last stretch of unpaved road before the driveway. It really was a miserable stretch driving wise: the gravel had been plowed away years ago and left behind the hard packed dirt beneath which had accumulated nearly hellish dips and ruts from over taxed vehicles trying to make their way through during mud season. Now I just creeped along this stretch in an attempt to save what's left of my exhaust.
To my left I pass a row of old mail boxes fixed to a singular 2 x 4 and attached to a rather solid looking stump, six boxes all together make up a line of standard, rust pitted white, gray, and black. All save the third box from the left which is painted with what once must have been an almost gaudy splash of greens, yellows, purples, and reds designed to look like flowers and grass. The sun bleached blue that ran over the top of the small, aluminum box must surely have been modeled after the sky as the faded and stained interspersed whites would be clouds. This box, this painting, is one of the last remnants of my father's first wife, Robin. A brilliant woman who enjoyed life as much as any person I have ever met and probably the first adult that sat me down and talked with me like an equal over a cup of hot tea. I think we were talking about the universe and its infinite possibilities...pretty hefty stuff for a thirteen year old. She died almost seven years ago now of an aggressive brain tumor and companies still send her mail. I'm not sure if my father has the heart to tell them she's passed. I tilt the wheel to avoid another portal to the underworld and continue on along this grass lined road
Finally I reach the driveway but the going isn't much easier. The way is narrow, just large enough to fit a single car, and the center of the drive has risen with years or traffic. Trees hang lazily over the drive and cast odd shadows in the afternoon sun. Through the cracked window I can smell the scent of damp earth, grass, and pine; it's almost as if the forest itself has settled in to reclaim the property. The road twists and bends further and the ride remains rough, but somehow it becomes more comfortable, almost like settling into an old armchair. I edge my car around the final bend and crest the final rise, that's when the house proper comes into view.
Like the final bastion of some wilderness outpost my father's house looks out over the lake in a weathered, majestic manor, an above ground basement and two stories built in the cathedral style along with a large deck encircling the perimeter makes this a monster of a building. But for all it's majesty there is a sort of..faded quality too it. The cedar shingles are stained and faded, mildewed in places. The deck is dry and the color of ash with moss having nearly reclaimed a good portion of the southern side, only the front door retains a measure of its original beauty. I suppose this is what happens when you don't live in a home for five years.
As I pull in and throw the car into park the front door creeks open and my father steps out. He's dressed pretty much as I always remembered: Carpenters jeans, dark blue T shirt, and work boots, all of it covered in saw dust and other products of his work in the wood shop. There's a little more gray in his black hair but his face is creased in a smile. I get out of my car and can't help but grin when I see him.
"Hey!" he says "Long time no see....you hungry?"
I almost felt bad, the rumble of my muffler along this quiet (some might say quaint) country road seemed really out of place with the road being surrounded by maples in full bloom competing with the ever present pine trees Maine is known for. At one point I laughingly thought the ducks that occupied the smooth waters of the local boat landing gave me a scathing look as I drove by, more than likely I was trying to focus on something else to keep my nervousness down; which the brilliant summer day and cool breeze didn't really make much of a dent in.
My dad and I hadn't parted on good terms, granted it really wasn't a good situation to begin with seeing as he was in the beginning stages of a messy divorce, but our last conversation besides our good byes had been him mostly yelling and me trying not to yell back. It was that last conversation I tried to keep from dwelling on as I turned onto the last stretch of unpaved road before the driveway. It really was a miserable stretch driving wise: the gravel had been plowed away years ago and left behind the hard packed dirt beneath which had accumulated nearly hellish dips and ruts from over taxed vehicles trying to make their way through during mud season. Now I just creeped along this stretch in an attempt to save what's left of my exhaust.
To my left I pass a row of old mail boxes fixed to a singular 2 x 4 and attached to a rather solid looking stump, six boxes all together make up a line of standard, rust pitted white, gray, and black. All save the third box from the left which is painted with what once must have been an almost gaudy splash of greens, yellows, purples, and reds designed to look like flowers and grass. The sun bleached blue that ran over the top of the small, aluminum box must surely have been modeled after the sky as the faded and stained interspersed whites would be clouds. This box, this painting, is one of the last remnants of my father's first wife, Robin. A brilliant woman who enjoyed life as much as any person I have ever met and probably the first adult that sat me down and talked with me like an equal over a cup of hot tea. I think we were talking about the universe and its infinite possibilities...pretty hefty stuff for a thirteen year old. She died almost seven years ago now of an aggressive brain tumor and companies still send her mail. I'm not sure if my father has the heart to tell them she's passed. I tilt the wheel to avoid another portal to the underworld and continue on along this grass lined road
Finally I reach the driveway but the going isn't much easier. The way is narrow, just large enough to fit a single car, and the center of the drive has risen with years or traffic. Trees hang lazily over the drive and cast odd shadows in the afternoon sun. Through the cracked window I can smell the scent of damp earth, grass, and pine; it's almost as if the forest itself has settled in to reclaim the property. The road twists and bends further and the ride remains rough, but somehow it becomes more comfortable, almost like settling into an old armchair. I edge my car around the final bend and crest the final rise, that's when the house proper comes into view.
Like the final bastion of some wilderness outpost my father's house looks out over the lake in a weathered, majestic manor, an above ground basement and two stories built in the cathedral style along with a large deck encircling the perimeter makes this a monster of a building. But for all it's majesty there is a sort of..faded quality too it. The cedar shingles are stained and faded, mildewed in places. The deck is dry and the color of ash with moss having nearly reclaimed a good portion of the southern side, only the front door retains a measure of its original beauty. I suppose this is what happens when you don't live in a home for five years.
As I pull in and throw the car into park the front door creeks open and my father steps out. He's dressed pretty much as I always remembered: Carpenters jeans, dark blue T shirt, and work boots, all of it covered in saw dust and other products of his work in the wood shop. There's a little more gray in his black hair but his face is creased in a smile. I get out of my car and can't help but grin when I see him.
"Hey!" he says "Long time no see....you hungry?"
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